Constantly
by nerwende90
Summary: Sometime after the events of Season 4, Mycroft pays a visit to 221b Baker Street.
1. Chapter 1

It was already dark when Mycroft stepped into the living room of 221b Baker Street. He eyed the mess around the room, taking mental notes of what had changed since his last visit and storing them in a corner of his brain for later analysis. For now, he was more interested in what he was _not_ seeing.

He thumped the tip on his umbrella on the floor twice.

"Is anybody home?" he called out, assuming his usual bored and smug tone.

"Depends," a voice resounded from the kitchen, "What do you want this time?"

Mycroft frowned. Who had spoken? He knew he should worry about the fact that it was getting harder for him to tell apart the occupants of 221b, but he couldn't dwell on that just now.

"Can't one visit his brother without ulterior motives?"

Mycroft went to look out of the window, both hands clasped around the handle of his umbrella, behind his back. Some deep recess of his brain noticed that the glass needed cleaning. He should talk to Mrs. Hudson about that.

Footsteps made their way out of the kitchen, and a second later Mycroft could just make out the reflection of an oatmeal-coloured jumper in the window. _John_.

"One can. But you don't."

Mycroft couldn't fight the smile that grew on his face. He liked John. He would never admit it of course, almost hated himself for it, but he did. Over the last couple of years, John had somehow managed to make these visits a little bit easier. With Sherlock around, it was no small feat.

 _He was always so resentful._

"And where, dare I ask, is my brother?" Mycroft spun around to face John, who had taken a seat in his armchair.

"Out."

"Out?"

"Out."

Feeling rather silly standing there when John was sitting, Mycroft made his slow way to Sherlock's armchair and sat delicately.

"I see. He must have left recently, as Inspector Lestrade told me he had talked to him this morning."

The corner of John's mouth curled up just a tad. "Inspector Lestrade told you, did he?"

"Yes, we just ran into each other."

"Is that how they're calling it these days?"

Now, _that_ side of John, Mycroft wasn't sure he liked.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Doctor Watson."

John snorted at the dignified remark, but left it at that. "What's this about, then, Mycroft?"

Of course. Straight to the point. No-nonsense Captain Watson. Mycroft took a deep breath - and the second cup of tea John had put on the coffee table - and sat back.

"I worry about Sherlock."

 _Constantly._

And it just sat there, in the middle of the room, as both men considered the heaviness of that statement. Aware that his hands had suddenly started shaking, Mycroft took a quick sip and set his cup back onto the table. John, for his part, fidgeted his feet and plucked at an imaginary loose string on his sleeve.

"Right. The whole... Eurus business." The ex-soldier ran a hand over his face. "It... It did a number on him, I'll admit it. On all of us."

Mycroft nodded almost mechanically. John didn't need to remind him exactly what "all of us" entailed.

"I never expected her to resurface," he mused. "What she did, what she said... I don't think there's any forgetting that, is there?"

John shook his head and focused on his tea for a moment. Silence stretched, settled, and then Mycroft could see himself jumping across the coffee table, grabbing John's cup and smashing it against a wall. He imagined grabbing hold of his stupid jumper and shaking him him. Screaming at this man who had taken his little brother away from him.

After all, it all had started with John, hadn't it? One moment it was just the Holmes brothers - not a friendly relationship, of course, but still a functioning one - and then Mycroft blinked and suddenly John was there. John and his temper. John and his kindness. John and his friendship. John, John, John.

"Mycroft?"

The doctor was peering at Mycroft curiously, concern carved into his features. Mycroft did his best to reign himself in, noticing too late that he had been gripping the handle of his umbrella so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

He cleared his throat. "Forgive me, I was miles away."

John's scrutiny made him lower his eyes. Laying his umbrella on the ground, Mycroft reached for his tea cup once more and took a large gulp of it, the scalding heat of it dragging his brain back to reality.

"It did a number on you too, didn't it?"

Mycroft had to close his eyes and remind himself to take another breath. He had heard of an illness that made people forget to breathe. They had to consciously remember to inhale and exhale, or die of asphyxiation. What was it called, again? Ah, yes, congenital central hypoventilation syndrome. He almost smiled at the fact that his brain was still sharp and alert enough to inform him of its own slow decline.

"Well, she's my sister too, isn't she?"

It had come out a bit too defensive, but John didn't seem to mind. In fact he seemed to relax at that, sinking a little deeper into his chair and sipping pensively at his own tea. He had probably made a deduction of his own.

Mycroft would later curse himself for speaking just then, and breaking the moment. He would later hate himself for bringing _that_ up, but he couldn't help his racing thought. He never could.

"Is there..." he trailed off, choosing his words carefully, "Is there any news on Moriarty, these days?"

John tried to hide it, he really did, but the tremor in his left hand couldn't be mistaken, even as he passed his cup into his right.

"Why would there be?" he enunciated slowly, and that should have cued Mycroft to stop. But he didn't.

"It's just that, with everything that's been going on..." Mycroft made a helpless gesture, letting the rest of his sentence hang in the air between them.

"Right." John said, almost slamming his cup on the coffee table. "Because we don't have enough on our plate already."

"I'm just wondering if..."

"I think you should leave, Mycroft."

There it was. The line had been crossed. Mycroft could almost here the sound of a gavel hitting a desk as John's words resonated in the small flat. And yet, he didn't move.

"How is your daughter, doctor Watson?"

A desperate attempt. A plea not to reject him.

But, Mycroft realised, the Holmes hadn't been the only ones affected by the case of the Musgrave Ritual - as John referred to it. The Good Doctor had been as much of a victim of it as they had.

 _John stays._

 _This is family._

 _That's why he stays!_

Mycroft suspected that John still held him responsible for the whole Eurus debacle. Had he told Sherlock about her, had he not lied to him for years, a lot of hurt could have been avoided. Sherlock had been getting better, even slowly learning to cope without John. And now... it was back to square one. Back to Sherlock's erratic behaviour, back to John's resentment, back to Moriarty's ghost looming over all of them. It was hard to keep track, sometimes.

John didn't grace him with an answer. Instead he stood up, pulling his jumper over his head and throwing it to the sofa. He ran a hand through his hair, fighting back the words he wanted to say but would regret.

And that is when Sherlock decided to make his entrance.

"Oh. You're here."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. He asked himself, not for the first time, how long he could keep this up.

"The warmth of your welcome is truly touching, brother mine."

Sherlock snarled. "It started raining twelve minutes ago yet your umbrella is bone dry, so you can't have been in here for long. And yet, you still managed to piss off John in that small window of opportunity. I wouldn't moan about social skills too much if I were you. Oh, and you're in my seat."

The detective shrugged off his coat and made a show of standing next to the door, looking expectantly at his brother. The message couldn't have been clearer. Mycroft sighed, picked up the aforementioned umbrella and slowly made his way to the door, one hand in his pocket.

"You'll say goodbye to John for me. I didn't even see him leave."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and his brother took it as his cue to leave. The second his feet his the stairs, the first weeping notes of the Stradivarius filled the small house. Shaking his head to himself, Mycroft made his way down the stairs. Only when he reached the landing did he realise his hands were still shaking, his steps slightly unsteady. Shaking himself as a dog would after a bath, he forced his body to obey him as he walked to the door.

"It's not getting much better, is it?"

He paused at the concerned, feminine voice. "Not really, Mrs. Hudson, no."

The old lady frowned. "You just can't go on like this, Mycroft. It's too much."

"I know."

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, feather-light, and for the first time in years Mycroft felt like a child. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and accept the embrace he knew Mrs. Hudson would give him. He wanted her to tell him that everything was going to be alright. He wanted to pretend that the future wasn't as grim as it seemed, with her. He wanted for his mind to stop and for time to still, just for a heartbeat.

But his mind rebelled at stagnation, and time waits for no one. So Mycroft cleared his throat and nodded back at Mrs. Hudson over his shoulder.

"Molly will be here tomorrow morning."

The hand on his shoulder gave a soft, sad squeeze and let go. "I know."

"Goodbye Mrs. Hudson."

He reached for the door handle but as he pulled the door opened just a little too hard, the voice behind him rang once more, thick with unshed tears.

"You're killing yourself, you know." A sharp intake of breath, almost a sob. "Pretending nothing is wrong isn't helping anybody."

He had no energy to answer, so he didn't.

He slipped out of the house and under the rain. His black car was there, waiting for him, as it always seemed to be. He rushed into it, welcoming the sensation of safety and warmth the back-seat provided. Above his head, he could just make out his brother's silhouette at the window. He had stopped playing, violin and bow held loosely in his hands, and was watching him.

It was unbearable.

"Home. Quick."

Mycroft's phone rang like a strange echo to his barked order. He considered not picking up for a split second, but then he looked at the caller ID and knew he had to.

"Yes?"

"Why, hello there, Big Brother! Long time no stalking!"

Mycroft closed his eyes. He was tempted to pretend not to know who it was, but that Irish lilt was unmistakable, and its possessor knew it very well.

"Mister Moriarty, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

A chuckle. "Ooh, I love it when you try to sound pleasant. Much more fun than insults. Do you know why it's more fun?"

"I'm sure you'll regale me with your explanation whether I like it or not."

"Because insults mean you hate me. But pleasantries..." Moriarty made an obscene sound that reminded Mycroft of Irene Adler. "Pleasantries mean you hate _yourself._ "

Mycroft's free hand clenched into a fist as he reminded himself that no amount of reasoning, threatening or pleading would do any good. This nightmare of a man could not be stopped.

"Fascinating," he said, hoping he had conveyed the laziness/smugness he was aiming for. "Now if you don't mind getting to the point of your call, I have a rather busy schedule."

Moriarty laughed again, and Mycroft's phone made a cracking noise as his fingers tightened over it.

"Liar, liar, liar," the voice sing-songed. "You're not busy at all! All you do these days is eat, sleep, and make sure precious little Sherlock doesn't fall apart. Oh, and of course you keep pretending I'm not there."

Mycroft wanted to end the call. He wanted it so much it was almost painful. But he found himself sitting there, helpless, while the high-pitched voice buzzed in his ear.

"You can never get rid of me, Mycroft dear. Oh your brother tries, he tries _so_ hard, but I'm always there. Every time you think I'm gone, I'll come back stronger. Don't you get it yet? I'm the Babadook, baby. And your brother let me in."

From the sound of it, Moriarty had brought the phone close to his mouth. Mycroft could hear his every breath as he dropped his voice to a staged whisper.

" _So close your eyes and count to ten, better hope you don't wake up again. 'Cause if it's in a word, or if it's in a book, you can't get rid of the Babadook._ " Mycroft had to yank the phone away from his ear as Moriarty broke into demented laughter. "Ba-ba-ba-dook-dook-dook!" the man yelled gleefully.

The chill running down his spine was enough to snap Mycroft out of his stupor. He ended the call and threw the phone onto the seat next to him, taking a twisted pleasure when it bounced on the seat and slammed into the door. For the second time that day, he had to remind himself to breathe and, head in hands, he focused on inhaling ( _One, two, three, four_ ) and exhaling ( _five, six, seven, eight_ ), again and again until the car stopped.

Later, he wouldn't remember getting out of the car and into the house. He wouldn't remember taking off his coat and shoes, and putting his umbrella in the rack. And he definitely wouldn't remember going to pour himself a glass of scotch, downing it in one gulp, and pouring another one.

"You drink too much."

Mycroft really must be getting old. He hadn't heard him coming.

"So do you, sometimes."

Greg crossed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist. Mycroft felt his husband's chin rest on his shoulder, and suddenly the weight there seemed to lighten just a fraction.

"Touché."

"Do you suppose," he asked, staring at the amber liquid in his glass, "That I could be the one losing my mind?"

Mycroft felt Greg's chest expand against his back before hearing him release a heavy sigh.

"I guess it's a possibility."

Mycroft emitted a sound that could either have been a laugh or a suppressed sob. He hadn't decided.

"But," Greg went on, "I would think it means that we are all going crazy. You, me, Mrs. H., Molly. I mean, we've all witnessed it."

"Yes..."

Mycroft took another sip. Yes, they had. The way Sherlock seemed to disappear more and more into himself. The way he fancied himself this extraordinary detective who ran around London solving crimes. The drugs, the fits of rage, the depression.

And then one day, John appeared. Speaking of which...

"I talked to John today."

Greg's shoulders sagged a little, but he didn't seem surprised. "We've been seeing more of him, lately."

"Yes. I guess..." Mycroft sighed and brought the glass to his lips. "I guess Sherlock still needed him. Also..." he took a long sip to brace himself for what came next. "I got a call from Moriarty."

Greg cursed under his breath as he tightened his hold. Silence settled between them as they leaned on each other, neither knowing who was supporting who.

When Greg broke the silence, his voice was tentative.

"Do you think we should try again? Show him again?"

Mycroft shook his head. He knew his husband meant well, but Sherlock's screams from last time still haunted his dreams. He had cursed him, shrieked at him, and would probably have hurt him if Molly hadn't been there with a sedative at hand. Mycroft and Greg hadn't talked about the incident ever since, both of them being too shocked to put words on it.

The next day, it was as if nothing had ever happened. As if Sherlock had never set foot in that cemetery. As if he had never seen the tombstone.

 _John Hamish Watson_

 _1971-2008_

To this day, Mycroft had no idea why Sherlock had become obsessed with that man. He supposed his brother had somehow read his obituary in the papers, or maybe Watson's name had come up in one of Sherlock's Internet research. But why Sherlock had felt the need to research John Watson and learn everything he could about him was beyond Mycroft. Maybe there was no real reason. Maybe Sherlock just happened to remember that name. Maybe it could have been anyone.

But it was John Watson. A good and caring man. A man of action. A hero of war.

A man who died before Sherlock ever had the chance to meet him.

Just like the other man lying in another plot miles from there, with a luxurious tombstone and an obnoxious Voltaire quote.

 _James Ian Moriarty_

 _1976-2009_

 _Man is free at the moment he wishes to be_


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs. Hudson had been the first one to meet John Watson. One day Sherlock turned up at her door, wearing a cheap black jacket, claiming to be Sherlock's Holmes' new flatmate. Mrs. Hudson had managed to play along, bless her, but Mycroft couldn't forget the frantic call she gave him that day. Then Greg got to meet John, then it was Mycroft's turn. Ella had warned him to take it easy, to try to get through to Sherlock in a non-confrontational manner, so Mycroft had done his best.

 _What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?_

 _You've met him. How many "friends" do you imagine he has?_

 _You don't seem the kind to make friends easily._

 _I worry about him. Constantly._

And still nothing had worked. When the diagnosis came - dissociative identity disorder - everyone told Mycroft to have Sherlock committed, but he always refused. He figured, between him, Greg, Mrs. Hudson and Molly, they could manage to monitor Sherlock well enough. He couldn't bring himself to have Sherlock taken away, like he had had Eurus taken away.

And he certainly couldn't bear to imagine Sherlock ending his life alone in a cell, like their sister did.

So Mycroft left him under the watchful eye of Mrs. Hudson and hired Molly to be his nurse. Not that Sherlock would have allowed a real nurse, a person he didn't know, to approach him.

For a while, Sherlock and John cohabited nicely. It was easy to tell them apart, as John would favour his left arm and wear hideous jumpers. Both personalities seemed to be somewhat aware of each other, but they managed. Sherlock had concocted a whole past for John, a personality. He turned out to be a good mediator, and at last Mycroft thought he had found a way to get through to his brother.

But then one day, after reading about the Carl Powers cold case, Sherlock changed again.

One day, Mycroft walked in to find Sherlock wearing a suit and carving letters into apples. One day, Sherlock had acquired a whole new identity, seemingly overnight. His name was James Moriarty, he spoke with an Irish accent, and he quickly grew to become Mycroft's worst nightmare.

A quick search on James Moriarty had told Mycroft all he needed to know about the man. Born in a rich family, he was the second of three brothers. All his life he always seemed to remain a solitary man, with no real relationship with his family and no friend to speak of. It wasn't hard to understand why Sherlock would somehow relate to him.

Moriarty then grew up to be an acclaimed mathematician, a brain that could match London's very own consulting detective's. Mycroft couldn't tell if Sherlock admired him or despised him because of it. But in the end, Moriarty's brain was his own downfall. Another parallel between the two men.

In October 2008, James Moriarty was diagnosed with Huntington's disease, which he had inherited from his father. The decaying of his bodily functions was terrifying enough as it is, but it is the loss of his mental capacities that the young man couldn't bear. During the weeks following his diagnosis Moriarty met a plethora of doctors, desperate for a glimmer of hope that would never come. On Christmas night 2008, James Moriarty went up to the roof of his apartment building, drank a whole bottle of whisky and shot himself in the mouth. He was only thirty-two.

He seemed to be Sherlock's favoured suspect in the Carl Powers case. After all, Moriarty had been a sad little boy who bullied by Powers and his goons for being too smart. But there was no evidence of it and, even though Mycroft had his team do extensive research, nothing remotely subversive could be found in Moriarty's past. Sherlock had simply decided James Moriarty had to be evil, and his new personality acted accordingly.

Ella didn't seem surprised when Mycroft told her about Moriarty. She explained that Sherlock needed John to be his good side, kind, amiable, considerate, empathetic. It followed logically that this personality would someday be balanced with another one. Moriarty was cold, cruel and vicious. And in the middle was Sherlock, constantly torn between the two of them.

 _Every fairytale needs a good, old-fashioned villain._

At that point, Mycroft thought he had reached his limits. He thought he couldn't go on like this, no matter how much he loved his brother. He even came very close to having him committed one day, but a tearful phone call from his parents had dissuaded him.

"Not him too, Myc," his mother had pleaded, "Please... We've already lost your sister."

And Mycroft had yielded.

Against all odds, he managed to get used to the three personalities inhabiting his brother's body. He even learned to recognize them at a glance. The fact that John preferred jumpers and cardigans while Moriarty only ever wore suits made it easier, of course, but after a while just the look in their eyes gave them away. Each of them had their own voices as well : Sherlock's low baritone, John's soft intonations and Moriarty's high pitch and Irish accent.

So Mycroft learned to handle Sherlock's moods, to open up to John and to swipe Moriarty's occasional crimes under the rug.

It might have been funny if it hadn't been killing him inside.

And then one day, in 2012, a breakthrough : Moriarty was gone. No one could really explain it, but he had just disappeared. John barely ever showed up for a while after that, and Mycroft had started hoping against hope. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, things were ready to get back to normal.

And then the worst that could have happened, happened.

No matter what Greg said, Mycroft still blamed himself for leaving the file on their coffee table. Of course, he couldn't have known that Sherlock would break in in the middle of the night and find it, but he still thought he should have known better.

"Mycroft, she was your sister too," Greg had told him, "And it's perfectly normal that you'd want to look at the file, especially last night."

Last night. The anniversary of Eurus' death.

Given Sherlock's condition,Mycroft never wanted him to know about her. How she had killed Sherlock's best friend when he was only a child. How she had to be committed. How she was found one day hanging from the ceiling, her bedsheets around her neck and her bare feet grazing the floor. She had just turned sixteen.

Mycroft and Greg had woken up to find a stricken Sherlock sitting on the floor, the contents of the file strewn around him. They hadn't been able to get a word out of him, so in the end they had brought him home and called Molly, who sedated him and put him to bed.

The next morning, Mycroft found his brother sitting cross-legged on the floor of 221b's living room, grinning up at him.

"Hello, Mycroft," had said a voice that had never crossed Sherlock's lips before.

Mycroft had frozen, opting for the cautious route.

"Hello. Can you tell me who you are?"

The voice had laughed, a chilling sound that reminded Mycroft of a little girl.

" _I that am lost, oh who will find me? Deep down below..."_

Mycroft's thoughts had started racing, his every brain cell set on cracking this new code, while his heart begged them not to go any further.

" _The old beech tree? Help succour me now"_

He had never wanted to run out of a room so bad in his life.

" _The East wind blow..."_

At those words, everything just stopped.

Mycroft's brain filled with static as another voice, from long ago, had come running from his memory, talking about the East Wind and the unworthy. Sulking about Sherlock's friend. Muttering something about making him disappear.

" _Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go..."_

Mycroft had found his legs no longer wanted to carry him, and he had half-sat, half-collapsed onto the floor.

"Eurus."

Not a question. He already knew.

Just as he thought his life couldn't get more nightmarish, Eurus had to surface from the deep, twisted recesses of his brother's mind and with her came the guilt, shame and grief Mycroft always associated with her.

Eurus didn't stay in the picture for long, but she had caused the most damage. The memories she brought back to the surface, the things she said, the things she did... Mycroft had very nearly gone insane then, very nearly gave up on his brother, on himself, on everything.

But Greg had been there. Greg had helped him get back on his feet and pull himself together. It was such a strange concept for Mycroft, to rely so completely on someone who he wasn't paying or related to. But Greg made his burden that much easier to carry.

Mycroft hadn't even told Sherlock about their relationship. Or their wedding. Funny enough, John was the one who seemed to pick up on that. Moriarty probably didn't care.

And now, it seemed, after four years, Moriarty was back. It was as if the whole Eurus debacle had just been a preparation for his return. Except now, Mycroft had lost John's trust and Sherlock had retreated back into himself. It was back to square one.

"Mycroft?"

The British Government - as John sometimes mockingly called him - raised his head.

"Yes, Gregory?"

His husband made a face.

"We had a deal. I use your full name only if you don't use mine. _Myc_."

Mycroft smiled. "My apologies. You were saying?"

"I just wanted to see if you were ready to go see your brother."

"Am I ever?"

Greg swayed his head from side to side, pondering the question, and Mycroft was reminded of Moriarty's mannerism.

"Let's call that a rhetorical question. Here," he added, tossing Mycroft his coat, leaving him no choice. Trust him to give Mycroft the proverbial kick in the butt he needed.

Greg was considerate enough to wait until they were in the car and on their way to ask the question that had been haunting them both.

"Mycroft, do you... Do you reckon we're doing the right thing? Letting him live in that flat, I mean."

Mycroft shrugged, a tired gesture from a defeated man.

"I've no idea. I don't even know if there's a 'right' thing to do."

"But... You do realise that, if worse comes to worst, we might have to commit him someday?"

 _We_. Such a simple word shouldn't have brought Mycroft much comfort, but it meant the world to him.

"I do, yes. I just..." he rubbed his eyes, the act of putting words on his thoughts almost too much for him. "Just not now, okay? I just want to keep him in 221b for a little while longer."

Greg stopped at the red light, shaking his head sadly. "You want to _pretend_ a little longer."

Mycroft could have argued against the notion, but they both knew the truth. As the car started up again, Mycroft couldn't help but worry. If _he_ thought he couldn't take much more of this, how did Greg feel? Was it really fair to ask him to go along with this crazy, and ultimately pointless lie?

Would Greg someday decide that he'd had enough?

A hand reached over to offer his a brief squeeze before returning to the steering wheel.

"Well, I guess we'll have to pretend together then."

Mycroft's heart ached. He didn't like a lot of people. But by God, Mary and Saint George, he loved this man.

"Thank you."

The words had come out so quietly that he wasn't sure Greg had heard. But then his husband's lips curled into a mischievous smile as he pulled up in Baker Street.

"I bet sometimes you wonder how you ever ended up with such an amazing bloke."

And, for the first time in a long time, Mycroft Holmes laughed. He reached out to run the back of his hand against Greg's cheek.

"Constantly."

 **The End**


End file.
